


bless your crooked little heart

by watchtheleaves



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Depression, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, abed is the best person ever, author needed to vent and this happened, troy-centric but there's trobed do not worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26913640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchtheleaves/pseuds/watchtheleaves
Summary: (the art of being broken, and loving our pieces back together.)
Relationships: Troy Barnes/Abed Nadir
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65





	bless your crooked little heart

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i'm really sorry if this doesn't make any sense, i wrote it mostly to vent because i've been doing not so well and writing helps me feel better, but i didn't do a whole lot of proofreading and editing so there's a big chance this is just going to be a little too sad. sorry about that.
> 
> anyway! songs that go well with this fic are this is home by cavetown, here comes a thought from steven universe, and are you lonesome tonight by elvis. if you're the kind of person that likes to read with a soundtrack. that's all!
> 
> tw: panic attacks, major talk about depression.

Troy doesn't know why, or how, or if it even makes sense, but he comes to the conclusion, one night, that dancing is to him what filming is to Abed. He figures, of course, that his guess is as good as anyone else's when it comes to Abed and filming, because it just seems like the deepest and most intricate relationship a human can even have with an activity, a hobby, but to a certain length, he's almost sure he knows. Because he's seen the look on Abed's face, the amusement and passion and interest and stress and wit and happiness of being behind the camera. He doesn't know if he looks like that when he dances, but a part of him hopes so, because Troy loves very few things in life as much as he loves Abed's face when he's filming.

This conclusion begins as more of a late-night afterthought, one of those that Troy has when he's wide awake and almost about to give up on sleeping altogether. He can hear the faint buzz of Greendale at night and he looks up at the ceiling incessantly and hums, very quietly and to himself, when the thought forms in his head.

He then thinks that it's been a while since he danced, _really_ danced, the kind of dance that makes his body feel completely his and also entirely alien all at once, the kind of dance that leaves him exhausted but also electric and giddy and all sorts of satisfied.

Troy tries to be at peace with that, but then he thinks that not only has he not danced in a very long time, he also has no good reason to justify that. Something like guilt travels from his brain to his lower stomach and plants a seed there. The thought makes him feel sick and bad about himself.

He doesn't get much sleep that night. By the time he blinks himself awake, hours later, the seed has grown from embryo to small root. Troy tries not to think too much of it as he makes his way to the kitchen and busies himself with breakfast.

It's raining. It shouldn't be raining. Troy doesn't care much about the rain. He thinks, as he watches it pour and set a rather discouraging mood, that he actually knows a lot about Abed and filming, and Abed filming specifically. He knows Abed well enough to know which ideas he's going to like before he even likes or dislikes them himself, he knows Abed well enough to see inspiration coming his way before it strikes him, he knows Abed well enough to understand when his frustration is coming from a concept he just can't translate from thoughts to images, or when it comes from an idea that died too soon and left him standing behind the camera looking at nothing at all.

He really does understand. Troy is frustrated a lot of the time, too, and he doesn't even have a reason like Abed does. Still, he nods and feels sympathy when Abed talks about standing like a fool with no meaning or purpose. He knows. He gets it.

His chest tightens and Troy thinks that he should be getting ready for class, but he doesn't, and no one can blame him if he doesn't, because look at the rain and everyone just moves slower when it rains and isn't rain so beautiful and Abed would _love_ how the rain is painting the windows with a dramatic fashion that Troy finds irritating. Rain makes everything slow down but Troy doesn't want to slow down, he wants to speed up, to move, to _do_ something.

By the time he manages to get himself to campus, he's late for class. He doesn't care as much as he imagines he should, and that thought makes the little seed-turned-root grow inside of him, and it makes him feel nauseous. Troy walks towards the bathroom because he's going to be sick, like seafood sick or motion sick, that's what this is, that's what's bothering him.

Troy blinks at the bathroom door—at the sheet of paper stuck to it, rather. He blinks once, twice, and then the door opens from inside and he startles and steps back before he can get hit in the nose, but he's still reading the paper. His brain is buzzing, has been for a while, and it's one of those days where words just take longer to stick to him, but they do, eventually, and then he's reaching out and taking a picture of the sheet of paper. He turns on his heels, then, and heads in the complete opposite direction.

Nothing is going to make the sick feeling go away, Troy thinks, and he walks into the study room with a heavy sigh of resignation. If Troy has to be sick, then he's going to be sick. He's not going to whine about it, because he's sick but it doesn't hurt anywhere, and he very easily could've gone to class that morning, if only he wasn't so busy thinking about feeling sick.

This is a sickness Troy is familiar with. He remembers it from the summer break after senior year of high school, and also a little bit during his first weeks living at the Hawthorne Mansion, but overall it's more of a feeling on his skin and organs than it is a specific list of symptoms. Troy knows it's nothing serious, because nothing comes up when he looks it up (he doesn't really know how to look it up other than by _can you be sick without being sick_ , which just brings up really weird and interesting articles that are for another time and place), but he also knows it's there, always, more or less intense, gnawing and eating and burning and making him feel itchy. Which is fine, because Troy is now mostly used to the sickness, but now the sickness has a plant, a living breathing thing inside of Troy, and Troy feels like it's going to grow him out and eat him alive.

He breathes and looks around from his seat by the empty table. He thinks that it's fine, completely fine, absolutely fine, nothing more and nothing less, just _fine_.

But then his grip is tightening on the table against his will and it's getting harder to breathe, and the study room is painfully empty and painfully lonely and are walls closing down? Why is he the only one there? Troy doesn't remember until later that he skipped class, that he was stupid and immature and skipped class because of the sick feeling, the _stupid_ sick feeling that wasn't worth it, and now he's behind and he's alone in the study room and when Annie finds him she's going to be worried and disappointed and Troy isn't going to want to answer to any of her questions which is only going to make her mad and Troy really doesn't want for Annie or anyone at all to be mad at him, he just needs to—

"Fuck this," he says in what sounds and feels a lot like a gasp for air. He scrambles to his feet and looks at his surroundings—not the library, where there's people, and not the couch, it's right by the window—before deciding to crawl under the table, knees up to his chest, and count to seventeen.

He imagines Old Troy standing before him, pointing and laughing. An army of Old Troys stands behind him and so do all of Old Troy's friends, and Troy doesn't want to see any of them, but he _especially_ doesn't want to see Old Troy, and it fills him with rage and fear and regret and he wants to ask Old Troy if he feels sick all the time, too, because he really can't remember how it was to live as Old Troy but if he doesn't feel sick and afraid then it must be the better option. New Troy has little to bring to the table in comparison. All New Troy has is fear, and insecurity, and poor-skilled dancing.

The darkness his improvised cave provides makes it easier for him to shut Old Troy out as he counts to fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, and feels his hands wrap around his knees so tight it hurts on his wrists and fingers but he doesn't let go, doesn't cave in, because there's a chance he's never going to stop falling if he does. Troy just can't risk it.

His breathing slows back to acceptable by the third round of counting, and after a few moments of quiet Troy wills himself out of the shadows and emerges a new man. Someone who has things under control, and who didn't almost just die under a table. Someone who is fine. Someone who battles sickness like a champion.

Troy then remembers that he doesn't have to wait for the study group to show up, because even if they eventually do, he's probably not going to want to see them, and that's okay. He deserves a day of not talking. He deserves a day of not being anyone at all because sometimes just being is so, _so_ exhausting, and Troy needs a break, and he's tired, and he deserves this. So he leaves the study room with as little dignity as he had when he walked in, and he decides he doesn't have any reason to be at Greendale anyway, so he goes home.

The sun is tilted at a different angle by the time he exits campus, but it's still miserable and hiding behind a pack of grey clouds, so nothing much has changed. Troy manages to get home before he even thinks about going home, which is an accomplishment because that way he can't feel guilty about leaving campus almost as soon as he got there.

He doesn't think about the waste of gas, of energy, of time. He doesn't think about the late homework, about Annie, about Old Troy and the study room table. He just thinks about the apartment, the bed, and hiding under a thousand covers, and then he does.

When he wakes up, somewhere between five minutes and two years later, it's dark and quiet outside and he hears the faintest trace of Annie's voice coming from the next room, which tells him she's home, for one, and in a call, for two. Abed isn't home, or not in bed, so it's either not that late or he's up editing or watching a movie. If it's the latter, Troy thinks he probably would know, because Abed would've tried to invite him. Maybe he didn't because he knew Troy's sick, or maybe he didn't because he didn't want to.

Which is fine, Troy thinks.

He sits up against the wall and fishes his phone out of the backpocket of the pair of jeans he didn't take time to step out of before napping. The screen is bright and blinding, and Troy makes an effort to not look at the time, going directly to his messages and then to open his gallery, where the picture he took earlier is still intact and unseen.

Troy looks at it, he studies it. He thinks he's probably going to end up memorizing the entire sheet of paper with how many times he's read it since he saw it that morning.

The phone vibrates in his hand—Britta, and then Jeff, and then Shirley, all three talking on the groupchat. None of them talk about him, he doesn't think, so he doesn't bother to check, and then he feels selfish for caring so little. He thinks about the seed-turned-embryo and how it must be a full grown plant, now. Like the one in _Wall-E_.

He doesn't know how he ends up leaving the room, but he's suddenly in the kitchen trying to find something to calm his hunger, because the last thing he had was a bowl of cereal that morning and it's nighttime, now, and Troy thinks that he's never lived a day so short and so long at the same time. He doesn't find anything inside the fridge, so he ends up chugging down the remaining orange juice from a carton before throwing it to the trash.

As he makes his way to the door so he can exit the room, Troy sees Abed sitting on the couch, white screen glowing on his face and probably hurting his eyes. Troy feels a pang of guilt for absolutely no reason, or maybe it's because Abed is working so hard, and he's a little slumped on his position on the couch and he seems tired, and he probably _is_ tired, not that Troy would know much about that because Abed is tired of working so hard and Troy hasn't had to work for a single thing in his life, so what does he know about life.

Deciding that Abed is in one of those moments where his focus is the most important and valuable thing, Troy looks at the floor and makes a mental map of where to step so as to get back into the room in one piece and in complete silence.

He takes one step, then another, then another, all accompanied by measured ninja-like movements that Troy thinks Abed would be proud of. Then, he loses his balance, and the floor creaks and whines beneath him, and he's frozen in place as Abed turns to look at him.

And then, he's crying. Stupid, senseless, unstoppable tears that just run down his cheeks and onto the loud floor. Abed moves the laptop from his lap to stand up and wearily, quietly, make his way to him, but Troy is doing the thing where his view is clouded and his shoulders are shaking and he doesn't know what dying feels like, but he hopes this is it, because the thought that it can get any worse than this is just devastating.

Abed walks into his personal space and Troy's arms are hanging to his sides in complete surrender when he pulls him into a hug. He knows how to hug Troy, because he's done it many times, and because Troy loves it, and Abed loves to perfect the things he can do to make Troy a little bit happier.

Troy holds onto Abed like he's his lifeline, because he is, a little bit, and he cries onto his shoulder in the most pathetic way possible. Abed runs a hand up and down his back and he doesn't say anything, just lets him cry, let's him feel terrible, because that's the only way he'll ever feel better.

Twenty minutes later, Troy is changed into fresh clothes and sitting on the couch. Abed is by his side, but he doesn't look at him or say anything. He lets the silence exist. Troy is thankful for that.

A steamy cup of tea is resting between his palms, and Troy likes the warm sensation on his hands more than he does the taste, but it does help him calm down.

They watch _Wall-E_. Then, they go to bed.

Abed doesn't say much, other than his common commentary on how the soundtrack created so many of the scenes and how _Wall-E_ could've been a revolutionary take on gender if Disney dared, but Disney didn't. Troy doesn't say anything at all, not while he cries, not after, not during the movie, not as they go to bed.

He waits until it's completely dark and silent and the world is just the two of them under the covers to speak in the smallest of voices.

"How do you feel when you're filming?"

There is a short moment of silence and Troy can almost see the words float in the space between them. Abed is turned facing him and watching Troy as he thinks, and Troy doesn't ever want him to stop looking at him like that.

"Amazing. Free," he says. "Like I'm the smartest guy in the room, but also like no one can tell me I'm doing it wrong. Like I'm in my element."

Troy nods, looking at Abed in the eyes. He swallows even if it hurts, and he has to breathe before he can talk again.

"I feel a bit like that when I dance," he says. When Abed tilts his head, he adds, "I _used_ to feel like that. I haven't danced in a while."

"I know," Abed says. After a moment, he asks, "Why?"

"Because," Troy shrugs. "I don't know. It doesn't feel like I can."

"You can. You can do whatever you want. You're Troy Barnes."

"I'm not sure I know what that means anymore."

"I do."

Abed wipes away the tear that has just begun to fall down Troy's cheek before pulling him close to his chest, hand comforting and steady on his back like moments before.

"You're Troy Barnes," he repeats softly. "You can do anything you want. You deserve that. You deserve to do things that make you feel happy and free and alive."

"I don't know how to do that," Troy hiccups against his will. He closes his eyes. He's angry, he's sad, but more than that, he's so, _so_ tired. "It's like I forgot how to do all that stuff. Like I don't even know how to be happy anymore."

"But you do," Abed says. "You do know. That's why you sit and watch movies with me. That's why you asked Annie to teach you how to knit. That's why you sing those songs you like when we're in the car and you pretend you're in a James Corden interview. That's why you're thinking about dancing right now. Just because being happy is hard doesn't mean you can't still do it."

Troy wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm.

"So, what, I just sign up for a dance class? That's how I fix this?"

"Maybe. You could also try talking about this with me more often, but I know that takes time and you see depression as some sort of illness I could catch if I get too close, so it's okay, I understand and I'm not going to force you to talk to me. But you can, and I'll be here when you're ready. In the meantime, yes. Dance class."

The room is silent for a couple of seconds. Troy opens his mouth and closes it again. When words fail him, he just leans even deeper into Abed's embrace and hopes that that'll be enough. He needs it to be enough.

They fall asleep like that. Upon waking up the next morning, Troy feels a little less sick, and the plant is a little less threatening. He mentions, over cereal, the sign-up sheet for a ballet class that he saw stuck onto the bathroom door. He doesn't mention going to Greendale and seeing it, and he doesn't mention his breakdown under the study room table, and Abed and Annie don't ask, because they're perfect. They encourage Troy and even offer to walk with him that morning so he won't forget, and Troy says yes, and he says thank you, and he eats the rest of his cereal in content silence.

The study group asks about Troy's absence but no one pushes when he doesn't give much explanation. They just hand him a donut and smile at him and tell him they miss him, and Troy smiles back, and he feels whole, and he doesn't even think about the pang in his chest and how grey the study room had looked the morning before.

And Troy dances again, a few days later, when he goes back to class. He's good at some things, bad at others, getting better at a handful. He goes home with sore limbs and tells Abed all about the combo they're learning, and Abed smiles and listens and then tells him about his day of editing his new short film.

It takes time and practice, but eventually, after months of trial and error, the sickness becomes so weak Troy can bottle it up and put it up on a shelf. Sometimes, before going to class or at night while Abed is picking a movie, he looks at it. Sometimes, he thinks about it for a minute too long. Sometimes, he considers even grabbing it, opening it up. He doesn't.

He makes peace with the bottle. The next summer, if he convinces the group to go to the beach, he'll tie a nice bow to it and release it in the sea.

For now, there it stays. And Troy lives and dances further and further away from it, each day.

**Author's Note:**

> so, yeah!
> 
> i'm on twitter as @h7ewon and i love to read people's thoughts on my fics so please don't hesitate to leave a comment! once again, i'm sorry if this was too weird and personal. i'm gonna write something happy soon to make up for it. thanks for reading, and remember to wear a mask and drink water!


End file.
